Recovery
by madeleine G
Summary: Set 3 months after Out of the Box. Neal is not getting any better and Peter is worried. No slash. The first three chapters are a flashback to a character from Peter's past. The rest describes her effect on Neal's present.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This chapter takes place 9 years ago**.

Chapter 1

Young Agent Peter Burke knocked on the door of his boss's office.

"Come in, Peter," Hughes called. "Sit down. I have a new case for you." He handed Peter a sizeable file.

Peter looked at the name. "Francesca Rossi? " He opened the file and looked at the photo. She was an exotically beautiful woman, bewitching almost, her raven hair and dark skin offset by the white clothing she always wore. Her delicate features contrasted with the heavy antique gold earrings and necklace she wore. "Isn't she assigned to Amondson?"

"Now she is yours. We wanted a new face on this one. We want you to go in undercover and try to win her confidence."

"Okay. What is my cover?"

"We finally got enough evidence on Michael Kaleska, the gallery owner Francesca seems to do a lot of business with. We're leveraging him to get to her. You're going in as a wealthy collector interested in the new Manet that was just discovered. Kaleska will arrange the introduction at the showing of her new painting tonight. All the particulars are in the file."

"I'll get with Amondson and pick his brain before I go."

"Be careful with your cover. She has managed to identify every other agent who's gotten anywhere near her. She has remarkable instincts for reading people."

"I'll do my best, Sir."

With that, Peter returned to his desk to study up for his coming performance.

At 8:00 that evening, he was casually touring the art gallery where Francesca Rossi's new painting was on display. She was an exceptional artist in her own right. Her status as an artist granted her access to collectors and patrons. It was unfortunate that she also enjoyed, for a fee, relieving those same collectors and patrons of their most valuable pieces and replacing them with excellent forgeries. It was also unfortunate, at least for the FBI, that she was exceptionally good at what she did.

She entered the gallery as Peter watched her from across the room. She walked with an alluring cat-like grace. Her unusual teal blue eyes were sparkling with intelligence. She commanded attention. Speaking with a thick accent, she peppered her conversation with Italian words and phrases. She was larger than life, noticeable, memorable. And it was all for show. All designed to draw in the unwary, catch their interest, have them begging to give her access to whatever she wanted. And it worked, all too well.

Seizing the opportunity when Francesca was not chatting with other gallery patrons, Peter lifted two flutes of champagne off a passing waiter's tray. He motioned to Kaleska, the gallery owner, to accompany him to where she was standing alone.

Kaleska made the introduction, "Francesca, I would like you to meet Jason Brechtman, a business associate of mine. He and I have had many dealings, and he asked particularly to meet you this evening."

Francesca smiled slowly, accepted the glass of champagne with one hand and offered her other hand to Peter, now using the alias of Jason Brechtman. "I am always delighted to meet new friends." Her voice was low pitched, sultry and heavily accented.

Peter could feel the attraction, the charm and sensuality she exuded. No wonder she was so successful at conning people. He smiled back in what he hoped was his most confidence building manner. "New friends are always valued, especially when they are as lovely as you, Francesca. And as talented. I admire your work greatly."

"Thank you, Jason. I am flattered you came to see my poor efforts at painting." Her hand gestured towards her new canvas.

"The new painting is exquisite, as is the artist. But I confess I am usually more intrigued by the classics. In particular, I am hoping to acquire the Manet that was recently discovered. Have you had the opportunity to view it yet?"

"Not yet, but I am open to new opportunities." She decided she liked this man and wanted to further the acquaintance. Usually the people Mark referred to her were single-mindedly interested only in increasing their wealth or position. And greed was definitely not an attractive trait in a man. There was something, well, almost upstanding, about this one. Like he was at conflict with his desire to acquire a valuable painting. Almost as if there were another side to him. Suddenly, it hit her. He was FBI! She had been lulled by her instant attraction to this man. So, they had assigned a new agent to her. Lovely! An interesting man at last. And apparently someone worth playing the game with. She almost purred as her smile broadened.

"Caro, perhaps we should talk somewhere more private. I have grown weary of being here. Perhaps you could see me to my studio?"

Peter was taken aback. This was going far better than expected. Francesca must truly trust referrals brought by the gallery owner. And the chance to be invited inside her studio—no warrant required—was a godsend. He did not even try to disguise his delight in accepting the invitation. The couple promptly left the gallery.

Conversation on the ride to her studio was light and general. Peter didn't want to press her to set up a deal for the theft of the painting. He wanted her to get comfortable with him so that he could check out her studio. He didn't want to blow this opportunity by appearing too eager.

At her studio, Francesca welcomed him inside with a flourish of her arms. "Benvenuto! Welcome! This is where I do most of my work. Take care not to get paint on your clothing."

Peter looked around the studio littered with the chaos of creative endeavors. Paints, canvases, props, bolts of fabric strewn across the room in untidy piles.

"Ah, the birthplace of your creative process. Will it reveal your secrets to me?" Peter smiled at her as he began a slow but fruitless tour of the studio. Nothing there to indicate she was anything but what she claimed.

There was a small sitting room off to one side, and this was where Francesca led Peter when he had finished his casual search. She motioned for him to sit on the love seat there and busied herself with pouring two small glasses of a dark brown liquid. "I hope you will enjoy this. It is made very near the village that was my home, just at the foot of the Italian Alps. It is a vino di pomodoro, a wine of tomatoes, raisins and a bit of red onions."

Peter made a point of allowing their fingers to touch as he took the glass from her hand. He tasted the wine, and exercised iron control to swallow the vile stuff and to keep his face from reflecting his disgust.

Francesca smiled demurely and suggested, "It is something of an acquired taste."

"Interesting," was all that he could grind out, still struggling with the aftertaste. Peter thought he might have seen a flicker of laughter in those teal eyes, but it disappeared, and he decided he had imagined it.

She picked up a sketch pad and charcoal and proceeded to draw Peter's portrait. "I hope you do not mind—it is just a souvenir of our meeting."

"I'm flattered to be your subject."

"I hope that, in time, you will be much more." Francesca looked up at him through her eyelashes and smiled knowingly.

They chatted while she completed the sketch of Peter. She tore it off the sketchpad with a flourish and showed it to him.

"You are very talented. And again, I'm flattered—you made some improvements on my looks."

She laughed. "Nonsense, caro, I create only what I see."

"I've heard that with your talent, you can also _recreate_ anything you see." That was as far as he dared push right now. She would undoubtedly want to check him out before entering into any agreement. He was sure his alias of Jason Brechtman would check out.

Francesca was thoroughly enjoying playing with her new toy. This agent was going to be a lot of fun. She was able to use her very real attraction for him to convince him that he was succeeding in charming her. Very enjoyable, but too risky to continue for long in such close quarters.

Sighing, and with many apologies, she confessed to exhaustion and ushered her new agent to the door. "Sempre viene domani." She translated for him, "Tomorrow always comes. This can be a good thing or sometimes a sad thing. We shall see."

"Thank you for a most enjoyable evening. Call me when we can meet again." He handed her a card on which he had written his cell phone number.

"I promise you, caro, I will be in touch with you very soon." Her hand rested lightly on his chest. Her amazing teal eyes gazed into his while a secretive smile played on her lips. She breathily whispered goodnight and closed the door after him.

As he walked to his car, Peter congratulated himself on a successful opening gambit. Her interest in him was genuine. He was sure he had her hooked.

Francesca watched until Peter's car was out of sight. She gathered up her sketch, the card with Peter's cell phone number on it and the paper on which she had noted his license plate number. Wrapping a cloak around her, she walked out into the night on her way to a friend's rooms.

After a brisk walk, she arrived and knocked on her friend's door. The door opened a fraction of an inch, the chain still in place. "Mozzie, mi amore, it is I, Francesca. I need your oh so expert assistance."

Mozzie unchained the door, ushered her in and peered side to side down the street to see if she had been followed.

Francesca handed him the papers she brought. "Please tell me you can find this one's name. I am certain he's my new FBI agent. Was that not so charming of them to provide me with a new one just when I was getting bored? I must thank them."

Mozzie took the information and sat down at his computer. Within minutes, he had pulled up a photo of Agent Peter Burke and a biography of his service with the FBI. "Just as you suspected. Wouldn't it be safer to keep your distance from this one?"

Francesca stood behind him and let her fingers languidly caress his cheek. She leaned down and placed a kiss on the top of his head. "I know you wish only to protect me, but I must have my small amusements. And, besides, it would be rude not to acknowledge all their efforts."

Mozzie shivered a little as her lips touched his head. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply of her perfume. "I know you won't, but I'll tell you anyway. Be careful. This one is a rising star in the bureau. He's got a great closing ratio for cases."

"Thank you for all your help. And I promise you, Mozzie, I shall be careful. I just wish to welcome him to the game." She said her goodbyes and returned home.

The next day Peter reported to Hughes on the events of last night. "I made contact, and I think she's interested." Preening just a bit, Peter said "We had a connection, a strong one. She is very interested. I'm sure she will be contacting me very soon."

Just then a clerk walked into the office and handed Peter an envelope. "This just arrived for you, Agent Burke. Special delivery." The clerk nodded to Hughes and left the office.

Peter opened the envelope. Inside was a thick folded parchment in cream with a slender black border of Italianate scrollwork. He opened it and starting reading. After a moment he let the paper drop to the desk and shook his head ruefully. "Yeah, there was a connection alright, and she made it." He picked it up again and read the note aloud to Hughes.

"Dear Agent Burke,

Thank you for an enjoyable evening. How lovely it is the FBI has finally seen fit to assign me a man of substantial intelligence as well as physical attractiveness. I so look forward to working with you in the future.

If you are still interested in the Manet, please let me know. I will be happy to be of service.

Sempre viene domani,

Francesca Rossi"

Hughes couldn't help but smile at his discomfited agent. "Well, Peter, look on the bright side—she likes you. Maybe your 'physical attractiveness' will lead her to be careless." Hughes was still smiling as he left Peter's office. Rereading the note, Peter promised himself that this would be the last time he underestimated one Francesca Rossi.

Thus began a two year dance between art thief and federal agent. When they encountered each other at galleries, showings, museums, Francesca was always warm and welcoming to her personal stalker. She restrained herself from offering him hints on what she was working on—after all, he was way too smart for her own good. But she couldn't resist providing him suggestions to help him solve other white collar crimes where the methods were clumsy or violent and had offended her. Peter was more than willing to accept her help and encouraged her to confide in him. A strange relationship grew between them—a combination of antagonists and colleagues always carefully choreographed and delicately balanced. Until the balance shifted.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes: **

**1. This chapter takes place 7 years ago**

**2. If you like Francesca, don't worry. Wait until tomorrow's chapter**.

Chapter 2

Francesca had grown tired of her work forging and stealing. The adrenaline rush had dimmed, and the planning of each heist had become almost routine. Perhaps the only appeal the game still had for her was Peter Burke. He would probably be quite annoyed to learn that he was the reason she had stretched out her criminal career this long. A fact she found wonderfully amusing.

She reached a decision that it was time to retire. She informed the gallery owner, Michael Kaleska of her intentions.

"Michael, my dear, I really must return to Italy. I have enjoyed our arrangement, but nothing lasts forever. It is time."

"Look, I understand your feelings. Of course, you're free to do what you want. But Francesca, there is one more score I really need your help with. Please, do this for me, then you can retire and enjoy your freedom. We've had a long run together, and I've made you a lot of money."

"Yes, and I have made you much money as well."

"Please, Francesca, you owe me this one last job. This is going to be my last opportunity for a decent profit once you're gone."

She wanted to be done with the whole operation, but Michael had been good to her over the years. And she did feel a little guilty for abandoning him abruptly. Against her better judgment, she finally agreed to this one last job. Michael provided her with the details and an invitation to lunch so that she could meet the mark, one Henry Marston, and devise her plan.

A few weeks later, everything was in place. She had completed the forgery she intended to substitute for the original painting. She had learned the security system. She had charmed Henry Marston into hosting a party to display one of her own original pieces. The forgery had been smuggled in with her own painting. She intended to return after the party and make the switch. Everything was prepared, yet she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something she was missing. Something was off.

Because she intended that Francesca's appearance at the Henry Marston party would be her last, she had an invitation sent to Peter to attend. Not very wise, she admitted to herself, but she wanted to see him one last time and say goodbye. Oddly enough, she thought of him more as a trusted friend than as an opponent. She was going to miss him, dearly.

Peter was intrigued when he received her invitation. He had a feeling that this was no ordinary meeting. He arrived at the party and kept a close watch on Francesca as she held court with her admirers. When Francesca finally caught sight of him, she laughingly shooed away the other guests around her. She pulled him out to the balcony so that they could speak privately.

"Ah, my dear Peter, how kind of you to come when I need you. How sad this is for me, but I must retire to Italy. I fear we shall not see each other again. It breaks my heart, but we always knew this could not last forever, didn't we?"

"You're leaving the country? Why?"

"Ah caro, it is, how do you say, the climate."

"Getting too hot for you?"

Francesca smothered a laugh and continued. "And this life, it weighs upon me. I long for a life with more meaning, less amusement."

"You could confess—I can guarantee you'll get life without amusement."

Francesca's smile was genuine at this clever comment. "I truly will miss you, Peter."

Peter tilted his head and stared at her trying to analyze her words. She suddenly seemed less theatrical, less flamboyant, less Francesca. She sounded totally sincere, and the look in her eyes was guileless. "You really are retiring, aren't you?"

"Yes, Peter. I give you my word."

"You know that stopping doesn't wipe the slate clean of your past activities?"

"Of course not. But you haven't managed to prove any of my 'past activities", have you? But you have one more chance."

"One more chance? You're pulling one more job? Damn it, Francesca, don't do it. If you've decided to quit, then do it. Now."

"I would like to. But it's too late to back out." The feeling that accepting this job had been a colossal mistake showed on her face.

At her troubled expression, Peter started again to try to talk her out of this last job.

But other guests wandered out onto the balcony, and the time for confidences was at an end.

With the full force of Francesca's personality suddenly restored, she laughed—a little too loudly—and gently stroked Peter's face with her fingertips. "Ah, caro, what tomorrow will bring, we do not know. But it always comes. And so we must be patient." With that she left Peter and returned to the party.

Peter shook his head and sighed. Such a waste of talent and genius. He was glad she was retiring, but he intended to take full advantage of this last opportunity to catch her and, although with regret, send her to prison.

She had used that phrase again about tomorrow always coming. Was it just part of the persona she was using, or was she really talking about tomorrow, as in 'the job was going down tonight'? He called an agent who he knew would be working late. "Look up anything you can on Henry Marston. I want to know what paintings he has, what he has bought recently and who else might be interested in them. Call me when you get some answers. Next, he called Hughes at home. "I think Francesca Rossi is planning a heist for tonight. Can you authorize a stake out? I have a hunch this is our last chance at her."

With the stake out organized and good intel on the painting he suspected was the target, Peter waited outside Henry Marston's home. The party broke up hours ago, and Peter had watched Francesca leave. He hadn't seen her return yet, but he was certain she would.

Peter was right about her returning, only he had missed it. Francesca had left the party with much fanfare and happy farewells. In the limo that had picked her up, Michael drove her around the block. She changed into black clothing and put on a black ski mask. She slipped out of the limo and returned undetected to the Marston house.

Earlier in the day she had disconnected the security cameras along the path to the painting. She retrieved the forgery she had left there that afternoon and hid until the household quieted and everyone was asleep. Switching the paintings took but a minute, and she was on her way out with the original, reconnecting the cameras as she went. Michael was supposed to be waiting for her. She would deliver the painting to him and he would give her the half of the fee the client paid in advance. Michael would collect the second half of the fee for himself. The client would never know that she was involved.

That was how it was supposed to work. But when she got into the limo, the client and a second man were waiting inside with Michael. The client, a large, burly man, relieved Francesca of the painting while the second man pointed a gun at her head. Michael said, "Sorry about this, Francesca, but these guys don't want any loose ends."

In blind panic she kicked at the man's hand holding the gun. She twisted away and flew out the limo door running for her life. She raced back towards the house and literally ran headlong straight into Peter.

He grabbed her and held her arms as she struggled. "Francesca! Stop, it's over!" He lifted her face to his. She was deathly pale, her pupils were dilated and a sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead.

"Peter?" She recognized his voice and her eager gaze focused on his face in the moonlight. She wrapped her arms around him. "Oh, Peter, I am so glad to see you. But we have to get out of here. There are men with guns after me."

"Yes, I know. I'm one of them. And you're under arrest." Peter turned her around and tried to cuff her hands behind her back.

She was struggling. "Peter, you don't understand. Those men are killers. We have to go. Now!"

"Stop resisting. You knew this was going to happen. And what happened to your accent?"

"I told you, Francesca is retiring, and the damned accent is going with her." By this point, Peter had her handcuffed. He turned her around to face him again, his back to the direction she had run from.

Francesca didn't see the man in the shadows. She only saw the moonlight on the gun in his hand. She watched as the gun was raised to point at Peter's head. She screamed, "No!" and threw herself at Peter to knock him out of the way. He fell. She didn't. The bullet hit her in the face. She seemed frozen for a moment, then crumpled face down to the ground. Peter rolled away and came up with his gun and fired. The man went down. Two other agents ran up to secure the gunman.

Peter moved back to Francesca. He quickly released the handcuffs and eased her arms to her sides. He rolled her onto her back. "Oh, no! God, no." The right side of her face was covered in blood. Her lifeless eyes stared up at him. He checked her neck for a pulse and found nothing. "Damn." It wasn't supposed to be like this. Prisoners didn't sacrifice their lives to save him. She had been his responsibility and he had failed to protect her. "Francesca, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Drawing his hand down her face, he closed those beautiful teal blue eyes forever. His breath caught as he felt a knife blade of grief cut through him. He'd lost a dear friend.

.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes: **

**Well, I hadn't intended to confuse anyone, but it may have been inevitable. There didn't seem to be a way to gracefully tell the story of a character from the past and then bring her into the present. (A flashback did not seem to work given the length and point of view restriction.) **

**So to speed things up, I'll post the end of Francesca's story and the beginning of Neal's now. Hopefully, this will make things clearer. **

**This chapter takes place 7 years ago.**

Chapter 3

Two days after Francesca's death, Peter was called to the morgue to identify her. Francesca apparently had no next of kin, so Peter planned on handling funeral arrangements. It was the least he could do for her after she saved his life. The medical examiner was preparing to do the autopsy and had her body on the table when Peter arrived.

"Ah, Agent Burke, come in. I was just about to open her up. The file is over there. If you would just sign the identification form, that's the last of the paperwork." The M.E. selected a scalpel and made an initial incision in the left shoulder. "What the hell?" He pulled back the scalpel and watched in amazement as blood very slowly oozed from the cut. "Oh my God, she's still alive!"

"What?" Peter leaped over to the table and looked at the body. Blood was definitely still flowing, slowly, but it was there. He looked up at the M.E. "Hospital, now." Peter made a sudden decision and regretted it at the same instant he made it. This could well be a career ending decision, but he was committed. Francesca was dead. But if there was a chance of saving the woman who had been willing to give her life to save his, he was going to take it.

The M.E. was not going to want to explain how he had declared this woman dead and left her on a slab for two days. He was also not going to be able to justify why a death certificate had been issued before the autopsy had been performed. What he was going to do is cooperate with Peter. Peter would see to it.

"Okay, this is how it's going to work. I'm going to transport her to the hospital as a Jane Doe. We'll see if they can save her."

"Burke, she's had a bullet in her brain for two days. She's not coming back from this. She is gone. Her body might not know it yet, but she's gone."

"Probably. But I decided long ago not to underestimate this woman. And if she does recover, I'm not sending her to prison. She saved my life, and I'm going to try to save hers. And you're going to help me."

Peter carried her to his car and drove her to the emergency room. He concocted a story part truth, part lies that the woman was a Jane Doe, but had been involved in and witness to a shooting two days earlier. He asked the hospital staff to not contact the police and to rely on the FBI to find her identity.

She was taken in and surgery was performed to remove the bullet and to repair the damage to her face. She remained in a coma, her vital signs low, but stable. Not too long after she was transferred to a long term care facility and quietly forgotten.

Four months later on a crisp fall day, Francesca Rossi returned to the world. She felt pain, lots of pain. She tried to move, but her muscles refused to cooperate. Even her eyelids refused to open. A small moan escaped her lips.

That tiny sound was enough to start the whole parade of orderlies, nurses, doctors, and records clerks in to see her.

A nice doctor came to see her that afternoon. Her conversation with him was the most illuminating.

"Well, I'm very pleased you're awake. Do you understand me?"

She managed to nod her head slightly.

"Great. You probably are confused right now. That's natural. You had brain surgery to remove a bullet. You also had some facial reconstruction done."

Francesca's eyes widened at that. The doctor smiled reassuringly and held up a small mirror. "Don't worry. You look good. And your hair is growing back nicely."

She looked at her reflection. It was her, but different. And her hair—the dyed raven black was gone. Her natural strawberry blonde color had grown in two or three inches. She looked like a pixie now, all light and air. Only her teal eyes remind her of Francesca.

"So, I warn you, recovery is not going to be easy. It's going to take a lot of work. Some of what you can expect is amnesia which may or may not be permanent, loss of motor function, cognitive difficulties, speech impairment, and possibly more. It would be best for you if you had the support of your family."

Francesca concentrated and managed to whisper, "No family, Doctor."

"Well, your visitor log shows that a Peter Burke and, who I assume is his wife, Elizabeth Burke have been here several times. His name's on the paperwork as the FBI agent who found you and brought you to the hospital. Would you like me to call them?"

She shook her head slightly. He mind was all messed up. Memories were fragmented. The last thing she needed was to try mental fencing with Peter Burke. She understood why the FBI kept tabs on her to know when she awakened and was able to stand trial, but why had his wife been here?

"All right. Rest now, a therapist will be checking in with you later. You'll need some serious rehab—physical therapy, speech therapy and counseling. Truthfully, Jane, it's a miracle that you're alive much less conscious."

She looked up at him, puzzled.

Oh, that's right. You came in without identification and were registered as a Jane Doe. Can you tell me your real name?"

She remained silent.

"Don't stress about it. Memory loss is quite likely given your injuries and that fact you've just awakened. Give it some time. Things may well come back."

Jane Doe. Why had Peter not given them her name? Not that he knew her real name, of course, but still. Was he trying to protect her? Was the man who shot her trying to finish the job? Answers would have to wait. In the meantime she would concentrate on healing, working, pushing herself to get back what had she'd lost.

Therapy began. She did the exercises with the therapist and, against orders, repeated them four more times after he left her. She exercised her mind as much as her muscles. She was desperate to regain control of her memory, her speech, her body. She was helpless sitting here. If she didn't get out of here, she was going to be spending a long time behind bars. It turns out a prison sentence was a great motivator.

Six weeks had gone by since she returned to the land of the living. She had collapsed on the bed after one of her do-it-yourself physical therapy session nursing her aching muscles and trying to force the pieces of her memories into a logical progression. Eyes closed, she heard the door to her room open and groaned at the thought that her real therapy session was about to begin. She pasted a smile on her face and forced her eyes open to greet her therapist. Only it wasn't her therapist—it was Peter Burke looking down at her.

He seemed, well, nervous was the word for it. That was odd. He wasn't holding handcuffs or a gun. That was good. He said, "Hi. How are you feeling?"

She didn't respond, suddenly struck dumb by the flood of emotions coursing through her. Fear, pleasure, confusion, excitement and right back to fear again. Strategies, tactics, escape plans started bubbling up while she struggled to think clearly and choose the best path. Amnesia. That would work. No one knew how much she remembered or didn't remember. He wouldn't put her in prison if she had no idea who she was. Loss of motor skills. She could lie there like a lump and he'd have to go away eventually if she didn't move. Cognitive difficulties. She could pretend she didn't understand a word he was saying. Which one?

But then she looked again at his face, so hopeful and concerned and caring and she just couldn't lie to him. Damn! What was it about this man that caught at her heart so?

Peter read the scheming in her eyes, the considering and rejecting of her options. He decided to take pity on her. "First let me tell you that you are safe for now. Francesca Rossi was declared dead over six months ago, and a death certificate was issued. So, for all intents and purposes, she no longer exists. This is your one second chance, and you need to decide now what you are going to do with it."

The former Francesca stared back at him with an expression of disbelief and wonder on her face.

"Do you remember that night? Do you remember telling me you were done being a con artist and a thief?"

She gave a last fleeting thought to playing the amnesia card. But looking at Peter, so honest, upright, maybe even a little heroic, she couldn't do it.

"I remember some of it. A lot of it's fuzzy."

"You made me a promise. You said you were going straight. Did you mean it?"

"Have I ever lied to you, Peter?"

"No misdirection. No deflection. I need a straight answer. My career is on the line here. Did you mean it?"

After a long pause she met his eyes and replied, "I meant it." And she really did.

Peter pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down. "So, you are about to start on a new life. You want to tell me who you are? Cause you're not a brunette. You don't have an accent. And I don't think you come from some 'little village at the foot of the Italian Alps.'" He raised his eyebrows questioningly and waited, a small smile on his lips.

That smile was irresistible. She made up her mind that for better or worse, the truth looked like her best option now. Smiling back at him, she announced "Dayton, Ohio."

He chuckled. "Dayton? I have cousins in Dayton. Small world."

She burst out laughing and extended her hand to Peter. "Hi, I'm Libby Warner. It's good to finally meet you."

Libby, the ex-Francesca, continued with therapy and brought herself back. She was never going to be the same person—the bullet had done significant damage. But she was slowly learning to deal with the anger and frustration and loss.

She was greatly helped by her therapist and grief counselor and was inspired by others in her group therapy. Eventually she went back to school and finished the Master's Degree she had begun years before and went on for her PhD in clinical psychology. She began work as a psychologist and a grief counselor dealing primarily with victims of violence. She worked for the hospital and the long term care facility to pay off what she owed them for her medical care.

While keeping her promise to Peter to go straight, she found her talent for getting people to give her money was still quite useful. She started a charity to help pay for counseling and practical needs of victims of violence. Her skills as a con artist were put to use with great success in soliciting needed funds.

She and Peter kept in touch very little. It was too risky for both of them to be in close contact. But he kept track of her career and she his. For the most part, Libby severed all ties with her previous life as the Italian art forger. She decided it was safest and best for everyone. And so Francesca was left to rest in peace, and Libby resumed her life from where she had left it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: This chapter, and all the rest, take place in the present**.

Chapter 4

It had been three months since Kate's death. He had gone through all the ritual, the condolences, the sympathy. And now everyone expected him to be recovered. He could see it in their eyes. The kid gloves had come off. The flicker of impatience was visible.

They expected the old Neal Caffrey to reappear. But he knew that man wasn't coming back. So to accommodate them, he put on a mask—the brave, recovered victim. His smile was friendly, welcoming, grateful. It never reached his eyes. And inside the anger burned hot.

He went through the mandatory FBI counseling. He played the consummate willing patient. Of course, I know you'll help me. Let me follow your advice. Let me work through those five stages of grief. Let me lie to you, because I'm still so good at that.

He couldn't risk losing his position and his access to FBI resources. He had to be able to search for Kate's killer. And, frankly, the job was the only thing that got him up in the morning. It was the only respite he had from the rage. Without it he would self-destruct. He had to have room for his ever expanding anger-more room than a cell would allow. And a return to prison was still hanging over his head if he didn't fulfill FBI expectations.

He didn't enjoy deceiving Peter, but, truth be told, he didn't feel all that bad about it. The friendly conman mask made it easier to hide the bursts of rage that exploded in him when he thought how Peter had kept him from Kate. Peter had spoken to her, been in the same room with her, maybe even touched her. Peter had prevented him from going to Kate on the plane, from holding her, kissing her after half a decade apart, from dying with her.

So Neal smiled at Peter, suffered his touches, thanked him for his friendship and support. And the anger grew.

"Neal," began Peter as he pulled up to June's house after work. "We need to talk."

"Peter, I'm fine," interrupted Neal. "It was a long day—too much paperwork. I just need a good night's sleep. See you early tomorrow."

He watched his smiling partner exit the car and didn't for a moment believe him. Peter tightened his grip on the steering wheel as the ever more frequent urge to grab Neal and shake him burst upon him.

Peter had been advised by the FBI counselor to give Neal his space, to be patient, to let Neal come to him. It wasn't working. Neal was getting worse, no matter how hard he tried to disguise it. Peter had seen through the mask, as he always did. He was attuned to the rhythms of Neal Caffrey's emotions. And there was something seriously wrong. And it wasn't only grief over Kate. There was more going on, something deeper, darker. And Peter realized he was down to his last option.

When he got home, he went to his gun safe, opened it and removed a well worn leather bound journal. He traced the gold lettered name with his fingertips: Francesca Rossi. He sat at the table and leafed through it, gazing at notes, sketches, bits of poetry, random thoughts. His eyes were troubled as his thoughts drifted back to everything that had happened. Did he have the right to risk opening it all back up again?

Juggling laptop, purse and bags of food, El came through the door. "Hi, honey, I brought take out for dinner." El looked at her husband's face and immediately asked, "What's wrong?"

"It's Neal. He's getting worse, and he refuses to talk to me about it. El, I think I'm losing him."

El could see the pain in Peter's eyes. She felt her own eyes mist as she hugged Peter. She looked down at Francesca Rossi's journal that he held and understood. "It's time, isn't it?"

"It's not fair to her, but I don't know what else to do. She's my last resort."

"So call her. Now." She kissed his forehead and handed him the phone. He dialed and held his breath until he heard an answer.

"Libby Warner. How can I help you?"

"Libby, this is Peter Burke." A long silence followed. Finally, he heard her release the breath she'd been holding.

"Hello, Peter. It's good to hear your voice again. Who is in trouble?"

"How did you… Of course, you know I wouldn't call you if it weren't serious. It's my partner, well my consultant, Neal Caffrey. Have you heard of him?"

Libby chuckled. "Of course I know of him, Peter. He was my replacement after all. What happened?"

Peter told her an abbreviated version of Neal's relationship with Kate, his adversarial sparring with Fowler and the horrific conclusion. He went on to describe Neal's behavior since then. He also confided his own fears for his friend. When he finished, he waited for her to digest it all. He could tell she was writing notes to herself.

After a long pause, she sighed and simply asked, "Will he meet with me willingly?"

"I doubt it. He shuts me down if I even suggest something's wrong. "

"So you want to tell him the truth about my past to entice him to see me. You trust him that much?"

Peter replied sincerely, "I do. I know I'm asking you to trust him as well, sight unseen, but please, Libby, believe me." He voiced had deepened with the intensity of his need to convince her.

"Okay."

"Okay? Just like that?"

"Yup. I trust you, Peter. If you think it's the right thing to do, then tell him. If that doesn't catch his interest, nothing will. I assume he won't want to meet me in my office. So set up a dinner for the two of us. If it doesn't work out, then at least I get a good meal. Oh, and by the way, you're footing the bill, so chose a restaurant you can live with. Call me with the time and place. I'll be there."

"Thank you, Libby. I'll arrange it for tomorrow night. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this."

"Wait to tell me until after you see the bill. Bye, Peter." He heard her laughter before she hung up.

Peter stared at the phone for a moment hoping that he was doing the right thing.

Libby had similar thoughts. Revealing her past to a stranger, to a con artist who could conceivably put the knowledge to his own advantage seemed reckless. But she had been truthful about her trust in Peter's opinion. She smiled and thought that whatever the results, tomorrow always comes.

The next day Peter called Neal into his office. "Shut the door. I have something to tell you." He gestured for Neal to be seated.

Neal was instantly on guard. His agile mind spun through a series of possible reasons Peter would want a private chat. None of them were appealing. He sat and waited in silence for Peter to give him a clue as to which mask he should be pulling out to get through this.

"Neal, I know there's a problem between us. And I accept that you don't want to talk to me about it. But I want you to do me a favor and go have dinner with an old friend of mine tonight."

"Peter, there's nothing wrong…" he began.

"Neal, please. I know. I know you."

Neal shook his head. He was feeling trapped. He looked longingly out to the hallway hoping someone would need to see Peter on a case and allow him to escape. No such luck.

"I can't force you to, but I think you may want to after I've told you about her."

"Your friend is a 'her'? What, is this some kind of blind date?" he said smiling, but failing to lighten the atmosphere.

"Neal, please. Her name is Libby Warner. She's a psychologist and a grief counselor. She deals mostly with victims of violence and trauma."

"Peter, I've been through the counseling courtesy of the FBI, remember? They released me back to work. I don't need to see anyone else."

"Wait until I've told you the whole story before you decide. Please. As a favor to me. And to yourself."

"Fine, tell me your story." Neal acquiesced with thinly veiled impatience.

Peter slid a file across the desk and nodded at Neal.

Neal picked it up and looked at the name on it. "Francesca Rossi? She was somewhat of a legend. I never met her, but Mozzie has spoken of her." He opened the file and started reading. Halfway through the first page he looked up again with surprise. "You were the case agent. So you knew her?"

"Very well. I was after her for two years."

Neal continued to scan the file contents. When he read the final case disposition summary, his eyes widened, and he raised his head. "She saved your life. She took a bullet for you."

Peter nodded and continued to watch Neal's expression.

"I'm impressed, Peter, but what does this have to do with me or your counselor friend?"

"That's the rest of the story I want to tell you. That file you just read, it's not complete. There's more to the story. And I need your word that what I tell you here doesn't go any farther. It would mean my career and maybe my friend's life."

Neal's interest was piqued in spite of himself. "Alright, Peter. You have my word."

Peter sighed and sat back in his chair. "It all started nine years ago…" he began. He related the entire story to Neal, who listened with rapt attention. At the end he marveled that his straight-laced, by the books handler had thrown law and order to the wind and done a really wonderful and impulsive thing. He felt a stirring of renewed respect and admiration for the agent.

When Peter had finished the story, he asked, "So, will you have dinner with her tonight? I'm buying."

Neal decided to take this opportunity for what he saw as an evening's diversion. "I can't pass up the chance to meet a woman who was a legend and who made Agent Peter Burke break the law. I'll be her dinner partner, Peter, but not her patient."

"Fair enough. I just want you to meet and talk to her. What about, I'll leave up to you." Peter gave him the name of the restaurant and the time the reservations were made for. He'd done all he could. The rest was up to Libby and Neal.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Neal arrived at the restaurant before Dr. Libby Warner and was shown to a table. He had agreed to the meeting mostly because of his curiosity about this woman's past. But he had to admit that it was also because Peter had trusted him with the truth. He knew he owed Peter his life, a couple times over. And as much as he felt cut off from Peter now, he owed it to him to at least go through the motions.

But while he waited, he found himself entertaining regrets. This was probably a mistake.

Regardless of her past, Libby Warner was still a psychologist and a counselor. And Peter had surely asked her to evaluate him. He wasn't looking forward to the next hour dodging the probing questions, tolerating the feigned sympathy, and in general conning yet another health professional out to dissect his psyche.

The only photo in the file had been of Francesca, and he was certain she wouldn't look like that anymore. So he looked over each unaccompanied woman who entered trying to guess what a former art thief turned psychologist would look like. Whatever picture he had built up in his head, it didn't match the graceful strawberry blonde in a teal blue dress that perfectly matched her incredibly vibrant eyes. She approached his table beaming a warm and friendly smile.

"Hello. I'm Libby Warner and you are, of course, Neal Caffrey. I'm very pleased to meet you."

Neal stood and took the hand she offered to him. His smile was deferential and welcoming, appropriate to the circumstances. "Dr. Warner, won't you please sit down?"

"Libby, please. And I hope you won't mind if I call you Neal."

Neal nodded his assent. They sat down and Neal settled in, prepared for the inevitable interview questions: how are you feeling, are you having any problems, would you like to talk, how are you sleeping, what medications are you taking, and so forth? He would answer them all with the correct responses, the proper attitude—always the willing patient successfully working to cope with his tragedy, well on the road to recovery. He would con this therapist as he had done all the others.

Except for the fact that this therapist seemed to be ignoring him and had her nose buried in the menu. "So, I've never eaten here before. Is there anything you'd recommend? And I would appreciate it if you would choose the wine. Oh, and just to let you know, Peter is taking care of the check for this evening."

Okay, so the interview would start after dinner. She was trying to establish a bond between them, waiting for him to feel comfortable with her and willing to confide in her. That was fine, too. Neal offered her some menu suggestions and they placed their order, including a bottle of wine that Peter would be appalled at the price of.

Since he was disconcerted by her apparent lack of interest in him, he decided to try to put her off her game a bit. "I would have thought a former Italian woman would have definite preferences when it comes to wine."

Instead of throwing her, his comment prompted a laugh—a little too loud to be entirely polite or to be anything but genuine. "I'm sorry, but that Italian woman had vile taste in wine. She used to serve her guests a local product of her birthplace. She thought it added a certain authenticity to her persona. Unfortunately, it became known as her trademark."

"So what was the problem?"

"It backfired on her. She was served it at every opportunity and had to pretend to be delighted that the person had gone to such trouble to acquire it. Oh, God, it was awful!" Libby shuddered in disgust at the memory.

Reminded now of another memory, she continued, "You should have seen Peter's face when I served it to him the night we met. He was trying so hard to win me over, he had to pretend to like it. I wasn't sure he was going to able to keep it down. He is so adorable, our Peter. Right up to that moment when he takes your hand in his, looks into your eyes and says those three little words: you're under arrest."

Neal couldn't help but laugh at that. Then he realized that this meeting was not following the script he had anticipated. The con he'd planned seemed to have nothing to do with the situation he found himself in. But he was nothing if not flexible. If she wanted to reminisce, he would oblige. So conversation continued through the meal centered on Peter and his efforts to catch the two of them.

"You know once he actually caught me, but he didn't know it," Libby began.

"Didn't know it?"

"I had lifted a painting that night from a residence and had it sitting on my couch. That same night someone else robbed an art gallery across town. That thief got away but not before being shot, leaving a sizable blood trail. Peter was concerned it was me and came knocking on my door to check on me. I was expecting my fence and called for him to come in. When Peter walked in, I about fainted. My knees buckled, and I sat down—right on the painting." Libby was lost for a moment remembering her panic.

"So how did it turn out?" Neal prompted.

"Peter joined me on the couch and told me about that other theft. I offered to let him search my studio. I swore I wouldn't move from the couch while he searched. (As if anything could have blasted me off that couch! And off that painting.) I spent the longest half an hour of my life smiling and chatting with him. Half an hour trapped, terrified and with the corner of a frame jabbing me in the backside. That was way too close."

This story reminded Neal of a similar occurrence from his past. He smiled at the memory.

Libby picked up on it. "You just remembered something. Please, share it with me."

Neal complied. "I was at a private party. I was there to pick up an emerald-beautiful—96 carats. I had bypassed the alarm and had the gem. I was on my way out when the owner went to show it off to another guest and found it missing. Their security guards kept all the guests there until the FBI arrived. Peter insisted on searching the house and everyone there. But he didn't find it."

"So where did you stash it?"

"In Peter's coat pocket. He searched everyone except himself."

"So did you leave it with him?"

"Of course not. When I was leaving, I insisted that he shake hands with me to show there were no hard feelings. I lifted it then."

"You walked out with the emerald?"

"And with a handsome apology from Peter for accusing me. It's a good memory." He chuckled.

"Did he ever find out?"

"Not to this day. You aren't going to repeat any of this to him, are you?"

"No chance. Doctor/patient confidentiality rules. I repeat nothing."

As entertaining as swapping stories had been, Neal was ready to get on with the unavoidable evaluation of his mental state. He decided to take the opportunity to broach the subject. "Speaking of doctor/patient, Libby, I was wondering when your interview is going to start."

"Whenever you want." She smiled brightly at him. "So, what do you want to know?"

Neal was confused. He hadn't felt in control yet during this strange but enjoyable evening. "I don't understand."

"Neal, I am not here to interview you. You are here to interview me. So, again, what do you want to know?"

"But you're a therapist. Aren't you supposed to be formulating a treatment plan?"

"I don't work that way, Neal. I don't have a plan, a path, a guidebook, a 12 step program. Each person's grief is unique to them. I offer to walk with you through it, to share as much as you are willing to share. I am not the leader. I am only the companion. This is your road to travel. I'm just along for company, if you want me."

"You're telling me that you're not doing an evaluation of me?" he said with a slight sneer.

The mocking tone to his voice irked her a bit. "You want an evaluation? Sure, I'll give you one. But let's get out of here. I need to walk." Libby paid the bill and pocketed the receipt for Peter. They left the restaurant and started walking in companionable silence.

After about twenty minutes, Libby had organized her thoughts and was ready to present Neal with her evaluation. "Okay, here it is. When I look at you I see rage burning bright. You are pretty good at covering it up, but it's leaking out. It's consuming more and more of you, and what's most frightening to you is that you're not sure you even care. A lot of the rage is being aimed at the one person you need more than anyone else—Peter. And that's causing guilt and loneliness and more anger."

"You feel alone, isolated, empty. You can't relate to your friends because they want you back the way you were. But you can never be that person again. You don't like who you are now, and you're certain your friends won't either. So you lie. You put on the mask you think they want to see and cut yourself off from any genuine contact. So between the anger, the yearning, the isolation, you're losing yourself. How am I doing?"

Neal looked at her searchingly. "Pretty damned well. How can you tell all this?"

"I know something about losing yourself, Neal. That bullet—it took a huge piece of me with it and left me nothing but rage." Here she turned away from Neal and looked out over the park to calm herself.

Neal could see a tremor shudder through her. He put his hand on her shoulder. "What is it, Libby?"

Tears pooled in her eyes. She took a deep, shaky breath. "I lost my artistic ability. I haven't been able to put a brush to canvas since that night."

Neal felt like he'd been punched. He couldn't begin to imagine the frustration and anger he would feel in her place. He turned her to face him and hugged her close as her tears overflowed. After a few minutes, she quieted and stepped away from him.

"Sorry, Neal. I didn't intend to lay that on you." At his look of concern, she smiled and assured him, "Really, I'm okay. That's just one more fun aspect of trauma. You can be fine and then suddenly it sneaks up and bites you on the ass. For a minute, you're right back where you started."

"So how do you deal with it?"

"You do whatever helps. And that's different for everyone. But however you get there, you learn eventually not to nurture the anger. You stop savoring the raw satisfaction of reliving it. In my case, I finally realized that while the bullet hadn't been my choice, the anger certainly was."

"So you just pretend it didn't happen?"

She shook her head ruefully. "No. You know that's not the way it works. We are the product of our experiences, good or bad. Each new one is like a veil that covers us, adds a new layer to who we are. The layers build up, some are beautiful, some are hideous, but they add dimension either way. And you can't just peel them off and discard them. The trick is learning to accept them, good or bad, and living your life in spite of them, not because of them."

Neal studied the lines of strain on her face. "You knew this was going to bring it all back to you, didn't you? Why did you agree to meet me?"

Libby sighed and tipped her head back looking at the sky. "Oh, several reasons. Mainly because Peter asked me. There isn't much I wouldn't do for that man. And I wanted to see what makes Peter care so deeply he'll risk his career, and mine, for you. Of course, I also didn't want to pass up the chance to meet the legendary Neal Caffrey."

Neal smiled. "Libby, you're not at risk from me. And neither is Peter."

"I know that now." She returned his smile. "Here is my card. You decide what you want to do. If you want to see me professionally, that is fine. If you just want someone to talk to as a friend, that's fine too."

Neal felt like he was being offered a lifeline, and he decided that he shouldn't let it slip away. "I would like to see you again, but I'm not sure in what capacity."

"Okay, how about we start with this? On Saturday, the charity I run is the beneficiary of a fundraiser by the Lambert gallery. They are hosting an invitation-only private showing of five artists' newest works presented by the artists themselves. It's very posh, lots of old money. You might enjoy it. I have to be there, and if you like, you can come as my guest. What do you think?"

"I would like that very much, but that gallery is outside my two-mile radius."

"Not a problem. I'll fix it with Peter." By this time they had walked back to where Libby had parked her car.

"By the way, I wasn't sure where we would end up tonight, so I had Peter request your tracker's radius alarm be turned off until midnight. So, if there is anywhere you need to go in the next couple hours, take advantage of it." She gave him a conspiratorial wink and offered him her hand. 'Good night, Neal."

In classic Caffrey style, he held her hand to his lips before executing a courtly bow and wishing her goodnight.

She got in her car and watched him walk away. Shaking her head, she couldn't decide whether she should thank Peter or curse him for this.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The next morning, Peter was on edge wondering how last night's dinner had gone. If Libby couldn't help Neal, he didn't know what he was going to do. Peter had nowhere else to turn. He desperately wanted to call Libby, but he was pretty sure she wouldn't tell him anything anyways. That doctor/patient confidentiality thing.

His other option was currently entering the office and heading to his desk. Peter truly did not want to risk disturbing any connection Neal and Libby may have made, but God, his curiosity and worry were consuming him. Before he could finish arguing with himself about it, Neal apparently decided to take pity on him and started up the stairs.

Neal entered Peter's office and sat down. "I can see you're bursting to ask me, so I'll tell you. I had dinner with Libby. She's amazing. I don't know what direction this will go, but I am going to see her again. And Peter, I do appreciate your setting this up." That was as far as Neal could force himself to go towards reconciliation with Peter, but it was enough.

Peter let out the breath he'd been holding and allowed that tiny bud of hope he'd nurtured to bloom. Thank God he'd decided to bring Libby in on this! "I'm glad, Neal. Impressive, isn't she?"

Neal nodded his agreement.

Peter continued, "So you two must have had a lot in common to talk about."

Neal's expression was unreadable.

"I mean, since you both were in the same line of work, and I was the one chasing you both. So, did you share any stories?"

"Not really, no."

Abandoning any effort at professional detachment, he cut to the question he really wanted answered, "Did she say anything about me?" His eyebrows were raised in hopeful expectation.

"Not a word, Peter." Neal kept his face neutral.

Peter failed miserably to hide his disappointment. "Really? Well, sure, it's been years since I've seen her. And she was there to meet you."

Neal decided to relent a little. On his way out the door, he paused and over his shoulder tossed "Well, she did call you adorable." He continued out of the office.

Peter face lit up. "She did? In what context? Neal? Neal!"

Saturday night arrived and Neal was fussing with his tie, his hair, and in general being uncharacteristically nervous while he waited for Libby to arrive at June's house.

Mozzie looked on in amusement tinged with a hint of concern. "So, you're dating your therapist? Do you think that's wise?"

"I'm not dating her, Moz, she just invited me to tag along to this charity event she was already going to. It's not a date. And she's not my therapist. She's more of a friend who happens to be a therapist."

"So, she's not treating you."

"No. Not really, not yet. I don't know. Maybe. I just know I want to know her better."

"Well, as long as you're clear on it."

Neal shot him a dark look, but was precluded from responding by the knock on the door. He opened the door to find that June had sent Libby directly upstairs.

Neal's wide smile mirrored hers. "Come in, Libby. I want to you meet a friend of mine. This is…"

Libby had turned to face the man Neal was gesturing towards. Her eyes lit up in recognition. "Mozzie!" She went to him and enveloped him in a hug.

Mozzie froze like a deer in the headlights when she said his name. Mouth open in shock, he backed away as soon as he could disentangle himself from her.

Libby finally realized that he hadn't recognized her. She stepped back, bowed her head and transformed herself back into Francesca. She languidly glided behind Mozzie and reached over his shoulder to caress his cheek. With slender fingers she traced circles on his temples. She brushed a kiss on the top of his head. Her voice lowered, her accent firmly in place, she spoke softly in his ear. "Mozzie, mi amore, I am devastated that you do not remember me. How often you saved me from myself. You were my dear little friend."

He closed his eyes and soaked in the sultry Italian accent. "Francesca…" he breathed. "Is it you?"

Libby switched back to her real voice and assured him, "I'm sorry to startle you this way, but, yes, it's me."

Mozzie was flabbergasted. "You were killed!"

"Francesca was killed, Moz, seven years ago. I have been the real me ever since—Libby Warner."

"Does the suit know?"

Libby smiled. "If by the 'suit' you mean Peter Burke, then yes, he knows. He helped me dispense with Francesca and recreate my identity."

Mozzie's jaw dropped at that revelation. "Why didn't you let me know? I would have kept your secret."

"I'm sorry, Mozzie, I know you would have. But it was months before I even woke up and almost another year of therapy before I was anywhere near normal. By then, Francesca was just a memory, and it just seemed best to let her rest in peace."

"Mozzie, you told me you had met her, but you never said you were friends." Neal said with a touch of reproach.

"I don't tell you everything. Apparently neither does the suit. I'm developing new respect for the man."

Libby tried to hide her smile at those words. "Neal, we have to get going. As the charity representative, I have to be there for the introductions."

They said their goodbyes to Mozzie and were out the door. On the ride to the gallery, Neal asked Libby what her charity did.

"We help with the practical aspects of surviving violence. Cab fare to and from the courts, the counselors, the doctors. Some of the medical fees. Moving costs for those who don't feel safe in their homes. Security systems. Food for those who are off work and have no income. Everything that is needed but that regular insurance won't cover."

"It sounds like a wonderful organization."

"Thanks. I started it when I was still in therapy. I saw how many people just didn't have the resources to survive the day to day demands on their finances. It was just one extra burden that they didn't need to be carrying. It's been a godsend for so many victims. And as you might imagine from my misspent years, I'm very good at getting people to give me their money."

"Dr. Warner!"

She laughed at Neal's mock expression of dismay, and they arrived at the gallery in harmony with each other.

Libby stood through the presentation ceremony and gratefully acknowledged the donation. Afterwards, the guests were left to circulate and meet the various artists and discuss their newest works on display. Neal chatted with the artists while Libby made the rounds of the wealthy patrons, cementing existing relationships and forging new ones.

Neither of them noticed the dark-haired waiter who hovered in the background intently watching and listening to Libby. When it was near time to go, Neal made a comment to Libby that made her laugh. A bit too loudly. At the sound, a thin smile curved the lips of the waiter. He slipped outside and waited. When Neal and Libby went to her car, he made a note of her license plate number and faded into the shadows.

The next week was uneventful, except for the meetings she had with Neal. Informally, like friends meeting for coffee, they talked for hours. Libby was grateful that Neal seemed to be willing to place his trust in her. People of their kind, more comfortable wearing masks, did not reveal themselves lightly.

The following Monday evening, Libby left her office and headed for her car in the parking garage. Normally she felt safe, but this time she was getting a vibe that something was off. She found herself looking over her shoulder and hurrying her pace.

Once at her car she felt relief until a man stepped out from behind a pillar and addressed her.

"Hello, Dr. Warner, is it? So nice to see you after all these years."

Struggling to stay calm, she replayed the voice in her head—it was so familiar.

"Or should I call you Francesca? I wasn't sure at first even with those eyes. Beyond the whole Italian thing, your face has changed. But when I heard that laugh, I was certain it was you."

Recognition clicked. It was Michael Kaleska, the man who had provided the marks and who had fenced the paintings all those years ago. The man who had gone to prison when the FBI decided they no longer needed him. She looked closely at him. He had been a handsome man once, but prison had not been kind to him. "Michael. What do you want?"

"What, no chit chat, no 'how have you been,' no 'great to see you again'? Well, let me tell you. I did five years in prison, while you, apparently waltzed off Scot free."

"Michael, I'm sorry you went through that. But we both knew that prison was always a likely end for people in our line of work."

"Spare me the platitudes. You owe me. And now that I've found you, we are going back into business. Since Francesca Rossi died, her artwork has skyrocketed in value. And there are going to be some newly discovered paintings of hers. Newly discovered by me."

"Michael, that's not possible. I…" Libby began.

"Make it possible. Or I'll tell the cops, the FBI and that last client of ours—you know, the one with the big gun- just who you are and where you live. I'll contact you in a week. Have the first painting done by then. I'll be in touch." With that he turned and headed for the exit.

Libby got in her car and locked the doors. She forced herself to stay calm, not to panic. She concentrated on controlling her breathing, even steady breaths. But she couldn't suppress the trembling or the fear twisting in her.

She was scheduled to meet with Neal that evening in the park, and she decided to keep the appointment. His willingness to seek help was still too fragile to risk damaging it with cancelled appointments. She drove there, parked and made her way to their meeting place. He was there before her, so she took a moment to school her face into a friendly, welcoming expression before joining him.

Anyone else would have been fooled. Neal took one look at her and knew. "What's happened, Libby? What's wrong?" His voice was intense with concern.

She didn't bother trying to make up a plausible lie. He would see through that, too. "Neal, I'm in trouble." She explained what had happened and what Michael wanted. "Even if I wanted to, I can't give him what he's asking for. I can't create any new paintings. And if I refuse, I will likely end up in prison."

She took a deep breath and tried to control the tears that were starting. "But that's not the worst of it. If I am revealed, Peter will undoubtedly lose his job. He'll never work in law enforcement again. And we both know that Peter is law enforcement. My God, Neal, there could even be criminal charges brought against him."

Neal led her to a bench and took her hands in his. "Libby, let me help."

"I'm open for suggestions." She smiled up at him with a watery chuckle.

"Well, we can't go to Peter. He'd just be noble and throw himself on his sword and confess."

Libby nodded her head in agreement.

"We only have a week to produce the first painting." Neal was plotting, exploring options and evaluating angles and thoroughly enjoying it. Pulling off a con under pressure was his strong suit.

Libby felt a wave of comfort at the fact Neal had said "we." He had leaped in to share her problem without a second thought.

"Can we forge one of your old works and give it to him?"

"No, Michael handled all my work. He'd recognize it immediately. It would have to be something brand new."

"Well, I can copy your style, your brushwork, no problem. Can you create it in your head and describe it enough for me to put it on canvas?"

"No, Neal. When I told you my talent was gone, I didn't just mean the ability to hold a brush. There's a blank space where all my ideas and visions used to be."

Disappointed, Neal put his arm around her shoulders and sighed. This was an obstacle he wasn't sure there was a way around.

"Neal, wait! There might be a way to do this. I kept a journal, a book of thoughts, notes, ideas. I had planned a series of four paintings. I had detailed sketches and notes on color composition, technique. If we had that you might be able to produce a believable original."

Neal's optimism was suddenly restored. "Okay, where did your journal end up?"

"I don't know. I assumed it was taken as evidence. But even if it was, wouldn't it have been destroyed by now since I was dead?"

"Probably not. They suspected you of a lot of thefts but couldn't prove them. I'm pretty sure the FBI wouldn't get rid of evidence on unsolved crimes, just in case new ever leads cropped up."

"I guess that makes sense."

"First thing tomorrow morning, I'll check evidence storage. If it's there, I'll borrow it. Meet me at my apartment after work." He flashed his trademark grin. "Don't worry, Libby. You're not alone in this. I'm here to help."

She knew the force of that smile was probably part of his talent for gaining people's confidence and luring them in. But right now it was just what she needed.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The next day Libby arrived at Neal's apartment and knew immediately by his expression that he had been unsuccessful in his search for her journal.

"I checked the records. It was logged in at some point, but when I went to retrieve it, it was gone. There's nothing in the FBI computers to give any clue what happened to it. I'm sorry, Libby. Maybe Mozzie will have more luck."

Neal offered Libby some wine, and they sat at the table trying to brainstorm another solution. Mozzie arrived not long after, and his more glum than usual expression didn't bode well.

"I've checked everywhere I can think of. It hasn't been reported, it hasn't been auctioned or sold, no one seems to know it even exists." Mozzie joined them at the table. "I'll keep looking, but I don't think it's out there."

"Why would someone even want it? It's not valuable, except to me. It didn't hold any secrets." Libby mused.

"Maybe a fan just wanted a souvenir." Neal said jokingly. Then he and Libby looked in each other eyes and nodded and smiled. "Of course!"

"What?" asked Mozzie, who hadn't been able to read the silent conversation between them.

"Peter has it." Neal revealed. "It's the only thing that makes sense. He has a bit of a crush on Libby."

"So could it be in his desk, or somewhere in his office?" asked Libby.

"No, I've picked the locks on his desk and his files. There's nothing unusual there."

Libby shook her head at Neal.

"What?" he replied defensively. "You know how hard it is to keep one step ahead of Peter. I have to use any tools I have available."

"So it must be at his house. Damn." Libby's fists clenched in frustration. "I could just ask him for it," she suggested.

"If you do, you know he'll figure everything out. He always does."

Libby smiled. "But we can't break into his home, Neal, even to protect him."

Neal corrected her. "You can't break into Peter's home, but I can. I'm already on good terms with his dog. Mozzie, you went through everything in that house when you swept it for bugs. Where could the journal be?"

"There was only one place I didn't look—the suit's gun safe in the bedroom."

"You passed up a safe?"

"Hmm, no choice. The assistant suit was watching too closely."

"Mozzie, I need you to watch Peter's house and call me at work when Elizabeth leaves. Then I'll tell Peter I have an appointment with Libby, so I can get away. I'll grab the journal and we'll meet back here tomorrow night."

"Neal, this could get you into serious trouble." Libby was having lots of second thoughts. And she felt guilty about dragging a patient and friend into her problems.

"Nonsense. It's not like I'm stealing anything—the journal belongs to you. If you think about it, Peter's the one who stole it. Trust me, it'll be fine."

And Libby found herself trusting him.

The heist of the journal went off flawlessly. Mozzie did the surveillance. Neal picked the locks and was in and out of the house in less than ten minutes. If he hadn't been quite so quick about it, he might have noticed the nanny cam that Elizabeth had set up in the living room. She had decided that a little extra protection against Fowler's cohorts and OPR was a fine idea.

When Peter got home that night, he noticed that the counter on the El's little security VCR was advanced. The thing had a motion detector and only turned on when movement was detected. This meant that Peter could always count on wonderful video of Satchmo scratching his ears or licking his butt in front of the camera. But to make El happy, he had adopted the habit of checking the tape each time.

He hit rewind and then play. Instead of his pet dog appearing on the screen, it was his pet convict. He watched in outrage as Caffrey entered, went upstairs and a few minutes later descended the stairs. He was carrying a book. Peter recognized it, but went to check his gun safe anyways. Furious now, he called the U.S. Marshal's for a location on Neal's tracker. Home, the son of a bitch was home. Peter grabbed his coat and keys and prepared to bring the wrath of God right to Caffrey's door.

Peter arrived at June's house just as she was leaving by the front door. She greeted him and told him to go right on up to Neal's apartment. He thanked her and took the stairs two at a time. Tamping down the urge to kick it in, he knocked on Neal's door.

Neal opened the door. He could clearly see by Peter's stormy expression that this was not a social visit. He yielded to the inevitable, and opened the door wide. "Come in, Peter. Can I get you something?"

"Yeah, an explanation as to why you committed breaking and entering and theft in my house this afternoon." As he spoke, his volume was rising along with the red flush on his neck.

Not sure of how he wanted to spin this, Neal played for time. "Are you sure about that, Peter?"

"I've got you on tape."

So no question of guilt. He decided to go on the offensive. "Okay, I was there, but I didn't steal anything, Peter. I was merely retrieving someone else's property for her."

"You're saying Libby put you up to this? Am I supposed to believe that you and she are working some scam together? If she wanted her journal, all she had to do was ask. What the hell were you doing?"

Neal remained silent.

"Damn it, Neal, TELL ME!"

"I can't, Peter. It's not mine to tell."

Peter pulled out his phone and walked out to the terrace where he could breathe easier. He dialed Libby's number. When she answered he skipped any niceties and ordered, "Get over to Neal's apartment. Now."

Libby answered, "Well, I'm just leaving the office, but I have to stop at…"

"Now!" Peter demanded.

There was silence for several seconds. Then she said, "I'm on my way," and she hung up.

He stayed on the terrace looking out at the view and trying to leash his anger. When he thought he was calm enough, he went back in to talk to Neal. His heart sank when he looked at his partner's face—controlled, impersonal, inaccessible. Peter had had enough. He was through waiting, being patient, keeping his distance.

"Neal, I can't stand this anymore! Stop putting up this wall between us."

"There's nothing between us, Peter."

Choosing to ignore the unpleasant double meaning to that statement, Peter replied, "You know what I'm talking about. You've locked yourself up tighter than any prison ever could. You are treating me like a stranger, and I don't deserve that."

"Don't you?" Neal's hands were half curled into fists.

"Okay, I get that you're angry. I could have helped you get to Kate, but I chose not to. I wanted better for you."

"Yeah, this is so much better." Neal shook his head trying to maintain control of himself, but failed. "Sometimes I hate you."

"Good! Then hate me. At least that's real. Not this smiling 'I'm fine' crap you've been feeding me for months. I want you back."

"When are you going to realize that this is all you get. Open your eyes, Agent Burke. I am never going to be who you want me to be. You can't make me into something I'm not."

"Damn it, Neal, I'm not trying to change you, just protect you."

"You have to let go." An undertone of pleading sounded in his voice.

"I can't."

"Why won't you listen to me? I'm not your God damned pet convict!"

"Yeah, well I have paperwork that says I own you." Rising anger made Peter's voice harsh.

"And you want to be patted on the back for taming the criminal, putting a collar on him, making him stay, fetch, sit up and beg."

"That's not true."

"You don't own me. You have an illusion of control right now, but that's all it is—an illusion. Hell, you don't even know who I am."

"I know you Neal."

"You only know my aliases. And they're nothing but smoke and mirrors, fantasies for the benefit of the mark. And you're my greatest mark, Peter. The best con I've ever run was on you."

"I don't believe that."

Neal laughed. "Well, you should. I've got you convinced there's something left to save. Something that wasn't burned away in that fire.

"Kate's dead. You're not. Wake up! She's not worth burying yourself alive. She never was."

No conscious thought crossed Neal's mind. He just reacted. He lashed out and punched Peter squarely on his jaw with all the force his anger supplied. Peter was propelled backwards. He tripped over the coffee table and went sprawling onto the couch.

Expressions of dismay, guilt and bone-deep satisfaction fought for supremacy on Neal's face. But then the realization of what he had just done hit him with a lot more force than he'd used on Burke's jaw. Assault and battery on a federal agent. And a friend. A fine follow-up to breaking and entering—Neal was batting a thousand today. If Peter wanted to, he could have Neal back in prison in an hour.

Trembling in the aftermath of unfamiliar violence, Neal spoke haltingly, "Peter? Are you hurt?"

Peter was rubbing his jaw gingerly. "I'll live. Did that feel good?" Peter asked.

"Yeah, actually, it did," he admitted. Neal covered his face with his hands. "Peter, I'm sorry. I've never hit anyone before in my life." Folding his arms and replacing the implacable expression on his face, he continued. "Take this as evidence of what I'm saying—even I don't know myself anymore. I'm not who I was. You have to stop trying to find that person. You have to give up."

Peter hauled himself off the couch and walked to within a few steps of Neal. He was unconsciously mimicking the younger man's pose. In deadly earnest he leaned forward and replied simply and slowly, "No. I don't."

Libby had driven straight to Neal's home after hanging up with Peter. She raced up the stairs towards his apartment, slowing when she heard the heated argument going on. She listened for a minute, then sat on the top step. June had followed her upstairs. The older woman had a determined expression on her face as she marched up the stairs. It was evident her intention was to put an end to the confrontation going on between Neal and Peter. Libby held up her hand to indicate to June that she should stop where she was. She whispered, "They need this. Just let it go. If it gets out of hand, I'll intervene."

June looked at her for a long minute. Then apparently satisfied, she nodded to Libby and made her way back down the stairs.

Libby waited patiently while the storm raged inside the apartment. She knew that for better or worse, any communication between Neal and Peter was a good thing. This wasn't how she had hoped to promote their reconnection, but as she had told Neal, "do what helps." Finally, when they had wound down and silence reigned, she stood and entered the apartment.

If the situation wasn't so dire, she would have laughed to see the two of them facing off against each other, each with his arms folded, lips tightly clenched and a mulish expression on his face. Perfect bookends. Except for the redness and swelling she could just see starting along Peter's jaw. Perhaps she should have come in a bit earlier.

Peter was the first to notice Libby and turned on her. "Libby, explain to me what the hell is going on. I caught Neal breaking into my home to take your journal. You could have just asked for it. What are you two up to?"

Under his stern gaze, Libby found her years as a respected psychologist, her education, her charity work all fled. She felt like a naughty child caught in the act facing a disappointed father. Trying to dispel that image, she shook her head and suggested that everyone sit down at the table.

Once seated, she recounted to Peter the blackmail threat, the need for the journal and the plan to buy time by having Neal forge the paintings.

"Why were you going to have Neal paint them? Why not paint them yourself?"

Libby considered what might be an acceptable answer. But there was that irresistible urge again that made her want to tell Peter the truth. "I can't, Peter. The bullet put an end to my artistic ability." She looked into his eyes and saw the guilt blooming there. "Peter, it's not your fault. It just happened."

Peter rose from the table and turned away from Libby and Neal. "You never told me," he whispered.

Libby went to him and put her hand on his shoulders to turn him to face her. "I didn't want you to feel guilty. You had done a wonderful thing for me, and I was grateful. It just happened, Peter, there wasn't anything anyone could do about it."

Peter pulled her into his arms, closed his eyes and sighed deeply. He looked over at Neal and motioned for him to come closer. Neal cautiously complied.

With one arm still circled around Libby, Peter reached out to Neal with the other. He let his hand cup Neal's cheek and slide down to his shoulder. Peter's eyes were bright with tears. He marveled at the fierce protectiveness he felt and just how deeply he cared for these two. With resolve he released Libby and gently pushed her towards Neal. "Don't do anything. No thefts. No forgeries. I'll fix this." He walked quickly out of the apartment.

"What do you think he's going to do, Neal?"

"I don't know. But I'll be there first thing in the morning to stop him."


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: I want to thank everyone who reviewed this story. Your comments, observations, opinions and suggestions were most welcome and helpful. **

**This is the final chapter. I hope that you enjoyed the story.**

Chapter 8

Peter arrived at work very early the next morning for what he feared would be his last day there. He had thought about it all night, and he'd discussed it with El. They both agreed that it would be a poor 'thank you' for saving his life if Peter let Libby go to prison, especially now. If Peter had to give up his job, then so be it. And, while it hurt to think so, maybe Neal would be better off without him. Perhaps another handler, one who didn't have such a history and deep involvement, would put Neal more at ease.

He knocked on Hughes' office door and went in to confess and accept the consequences. Peter told Hughes the whole story of the cover-up, the lies, the falsified records, the conveniently misplaced paperwork. He left nothing out. He offered no excuses. He asked only one thing.

"Please, just let Libby alone. She is no danger to anyone. In fact, she's helped hundreds of victims. She's the most anti-crime advocate there is. Dr. Libby Warner has no connection anymore with Francesca Rossi. Putting her in prison would serve no purpose."

Peter put forward the only leverage he had to offer. "Please, Hughes. Let her go, and I'll plead guilty to whatever charges you think should be brought. I won't embarrass the bureau. I'll do whatever you need done."

Then he went on to brief his superior on the current activity of Michael Kaleska, the threats he had made and his plans to profit from the blackmail scheme. Despite his decision to confess the whole truth, he managed to leave out the part where Neal had broken into his house and was painting art forgeries. He begged Hughes to protect Libby from Kaleska.

Near the end of his confession, Dr. Libby Warner arrived at the FBI building and requested to be shown to Special Agent Hughes. She was escorted upstairs and let to his office. Thanking the pleasant security guard and wondering if it would be him escorting her to jail later, she knocked on Hughes' door. At his invitation, she took a deep breath to still the trembling that had gripped her and entered.

Before she could introduce herself, Peter stood and demanded, "What do you think you're doing here?"

"I'm here to turn myself in, Peter. Please don't interfere."

She turned to address the older man who seemed to be covering up what looked remarkably like a smirk. "Agent Hughes, I am, or I was, Francesca Rossi. When I was shot and declared dead, there was a mix up. I have been living under another name ever since. Peter would have arrested me if he had known I was still alive. I am guilty and I am ready to go to prison." She had pushed through her confession on sheer will. Her knees suddenly refused to support her any longer, and she was forced to sit down. She looked up expectantly, knowing that the next moves were all in Hughes' hands, and waited.

Hughes leaned forward in his chair, his fingers interlaced on the desk. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped short when Neal burst into the office. The clearly distraught young man slammed his hands down on the desk and kept them there as if anticipating being handcuffed.

"Hughes, you can't do this. Listen to me. I'm making you an offer, one I've never made before. I'll confess. To all my crimes. You can clear dozens of cases all at once if you agree to let Libby go. She's not a criminal anymore. She's no threat to you. But I am. I'm giving you the opportunity to put me away in prison for good. Please…I'm begging you."

The veteran agent was struggling to maintain his composure in the face of this trio of confessions. "Why does everybody want to go to prison today?" He called out to Jones who was passing his open office door, "Hey, Jones!"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Do you want to go to prison?"

"No, Sir! I don't." Deciding it was safer not to know what that was about, Jones made good his escape.

"See? Jones doesn't want to go to prison. Smart man. Neal, shut the door and let's deal with the rest of you one by one. Peter, you're first. Seven years ago, when I learned what you had done, I had my doubts. But even back then you were my best agent, so I gave you some leeway. Frankly, given the nature of Dr. Warner's injuries, I didn't expect anything to come of it. And when she recovered, I felt I was already committed."

"You knew! You knew, all along," said Peter.

"Of course, I knew. I don't let any of my agents put their careers at risk unless I know what's going on and approve it. I've been in this job for twenty-five years. You think I don't know everything that goes on here?" Here he shot a look at Neal who swallowed and shifted his gaze to the floor. "Just be sure there isn't a similar irregularity involving Caffrey. A single overlooked lapse is all you get."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you. Thank you."

"Now, Dr. Warner, your turn."

Libby straightened in her chair and fixed her eyes on Hughes, hope and fear vying for position.

"I have followed your career closely. When you started your charity, I admit, I expected it to be a scam. But over the years I have had forensic accountants consistently prove me wrong. And I respect that you worked off your debt to the hospital and the rehab center and that you provide counseling at free clinics. So I consider those years to have been community service in lieu of a prison sentence. I see no advantage to be gained by pursuing an old, forgotten case now. Do you?"

"No, Agent Hughes. I don't. And thank you." She realized she had been clenching the arms of the chair and relaxed. A shiver of relief passed through her. Standing beside her, Neal squeezed her shoulder gently.

And last, but not least, we come to you." He turned to face Neal. "Quite an interesting offer, you've made—dozens of open cases?"

Neal flushed slightly, but stood straight and met Hughes' eyes.

"I admit, it's tempting. But it would mean I would be losing a valuable, if somewhat overly colorful, team member. And Neal, like it or not, you are a member of the team. You belong here with us."

Hughes seemed to be speaking with two different levels of meaning. At least that's how Neal was interpreting it. Libby, too. She smiled her ever increasing gratitude at Hughes.

"Now if anybody should be going to prison, I would nominate Kaleska. But I doubt we'll be able to manage that and keep Dr. Warner's secret. If there had been an immunity agreement signed seven years ago between the district attorney, the bureau and Dr. Warner, that would be useful."

Hughes looked at the confused expressions on his audience's faces. "Ah, you're unfamiliar with that type of agreement. Let me show you an example." He turned to the file drawers behind him and, after a brief search, pulled out a document and pushed it across his desk towards Neal. "Yes, a document like this one with the proper signatures from the District Attorney's office and the Bureau, would certainly have been useful. A document like this one could go a long way to convince Kaleska that Dr. Warner had the full strength and support of law enforcement behind her. It could let him know that revealing her past would lead to nothing more than an additional prison term for him. Of course, if asked, the FBI would neither confirm nor deny the existence of such a document. Confidentiality and all."

"So, people, an interesting morning so far. I would appreciate it if you would all go back to work and make this entire issue go away. I'm going to get some coffee." With that, Hughes walked out of his office leaving Peter, Neal and Libby looking at each other in succeeding degrees of amazement, relief, and delight.

Neal slipped the document into his jacket and disappeared to the copy room.

Libby stood up and kissed Peter on the cheek, smiled and forced herself not to dance down the stairs on her way out.

Peter touched his cheek where Libby had kissed him and called El to tell her the news.

The meeting with Kaleska was somewhat anti-climactic. When faced with an angry FBI agent, a document proving Libby was well connected and the threat of more prison time for himself, he folded. Or more accurately, nearly collapsed in fear. He stumbled over himself in his efforts to apologize to Libby and to assure Peter that he was leaving New York. Today. He even thanked Peter for his leniency.

Peter escorted an ecstatic Libby back to the car where Neal waited, leaning against the car. Seeing the look on Libby's face, Neal didn't need to ask how it went. He breathed a sigh of relief and gave Libby a quick hug. Turning to his partner, Neal said, "Peter, I'd like us to talk. If you're willing." After the things they both had said in Neal's apartment and the punch in the jaw, he wasn't entirely sure Peter would agree to another session.

But Peter's heart sang at the chance Neal was offering. He felt renewed hope that their friendship could be mended. Trying to suppress his enthusiasm so he didn't scare Neal off, he simple answered, "I'd like that. Whenever you want."

Libby was pleased that the two men seemed to be headed in the right direction. "Well, you don't need me, so I'll catch a cab and get back to my office."

"Libby, I do need you," said Neal. "I want to see you—professionally."

"Okay. I'll set it up. But do you need me to be here now with you and Peter?"

"No. You told me to do whatever helps. And right now I think what helps is talking to Peter."

Libby touched Neal's arm and nodded. "I'll call you later." She smiled at them both and walked away leaving them facing each other and shuffling awkwardly.

"Want to come to my house for lunch?" Peter finally asked.

"Deviled ham?"

"I think we can find something else that doesn't offend your palate."

"Are you going to yell at me again?"

"Likely. Are you going to hit me again?

"Doubtful."

"I can live with that."

"Me, too."

It was a start.


End file.
